


seal it with a kiss

by tisapear



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s11e13 Love Hurts, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisapear/pseuds/tisapear
Summary: "Besides, proofed our theory, didn't it? That this whole kiss of death curse is transmittable."
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	seal it with a kiss

"I'm just saying, you don't have to do this. Be the guinea pig."

"What?"

"The martyr—try and carry the weight by yourself. Do _this_."

"I'm gonna be fine, okay. And as long as I'm good, _she's_ good, and that's the important thing. Besides, proofed our theory, didn't it? That this whole kiss of death curse is transmittable."

Back turned to his little brother but he can practically hear Sam grit his pretty little teeth, imagine the scrunched up face trying to reign in barely concealed anger at Dean's easy brush-off; but that's okay, 'cause everything he just said's _true_ , so if Sam wants to throw a hissy fit, fine—Dean'll deal with it.

 _After_ they've taken care of Mr. Kiss And Kill. 

But Sam doesn't throw a hissy fit. Doesn't even _protest._

Instead: Might-have-been-your-imagination sound of a quiet breath, released after being held in for too long. Can easily imagine the accompanying loosening of Sam's shoulders, curling downwards, into himself. Makes Dean's eyebrows rise up high 'cause, what? 

"Alright."

Fucking _double_ what.

"Alright?"

Dean's stunted, now, hand stuck in the movement of grabbing his second just-in-case gun, and he thinks he's probably 'bout to say more, something like _just like that?_ or _when does your prissy little bitch ass **ever** give in that easily?_, but then he feels hands grip the back of his jacket, whirl him 'round, back of his thighs hitting the open trunk as he's slammed against it, his hand gripping tightly at the frame of the trunk the only thing keeping him from toppling backwards into the rather generous assembly of murder weapons.

And Sam's got his hands all over Dean, one giant teddy bear predator-paw gripping his side while the other's pressing down on—

on his collar, right where the hickey from Valentine's Day used to be, the one from the cute brunette with the dimples and the freaky-hot asphyxiation kink, and you can definitely no longer see the damn thing but the way Sam's eyes flicker to the place for just a second— 

Sam, _fucking_ Sam who's keeping Dean right where he wants him, huge hands keeping Dean's body pliant, and he's looking at Dean—oddly determined. Is starting to—not make him nervous 'cause it's pain in the ass _Sammy_ , but—maybe freak him out the tiniest bit since Sam only ever gets this goddamn weird, all look-me-in-eyes, read-it-in-my-stare intense, when matters are literally life or death, so for him to act like that out of the blue, completely unprompted, can't end well for Dean.

(Or his heart, honestly.)

He tries to shift, just a little, but Sam immediately tightens his grip, almost as if... _in warning_

Dean starts biting at the insides of his mouth because _god_ , this isn't the time for his ugly incestuous feelings to rear their head. 

Or his dick. 

And close as Sammy is he'd _feel_ it, too, so distraction tactic indignation is in order.

"Dude, the _fuck_ are you—" 

It's like there's a quiet, high-pitched noise starting in his ears and reaching down to his toes before everything goes deathly quiet, and of course he's being a big girl about it and thinks, _so dreams do come true, huh,_ weirdly detached from the whole thing considering it's a decades old pipe dream coming true. 

Thing is, dreams fulfilled? They like to screw you over while they're at it. 

So it's not sweet like he's definitely never imagined, and it's not hot and needy and oh _god_ yes _finally_ like he dreams about an embarrassing amount of times, and it's not even a chick flick worthy _one or both of us just died for the nth time in as many weeks and I can no longer keep it in for fuck's sake_ -kiss full of longing and desperation he sometimes (in the aftermath of every hunt, if he's being honest, which he's not) half dreads, half hopes for. 

Instead it's short and angry and downright _raw_ , Sam's lips dry and cracked where they're pressing, molding, _fitting_ against Dean's own, and he's biting at Dean's lower lip, just a tiny one-tooth-nip, and Sam releases one barely-there breath into Dean's lungs, hint of the sip of beer he stole from Dean's bottle earlier, and Dean can't even react 'cause Sam's fucking _kissing_ him, just like that, in the middle of nowhere with the vic of the week, little Miss Melissa I-love-him-anyway, only a rear window away, practically right at Dean's back, and—and this is not the moment because they've got a curse to deal with and—

Sam's got the curse now. 

Oh, _god_ , oh, god, no, _Sammy's got the curse_ —

Sam's breath is stuck at the back of Dean's throat and he's not sure whether he's being freed for the first time in forever or suffocating, suddenly bone-chilled terriefied, his brother's fingers curling where they're still hooked into Dean's collar, blunt nails digging into his throat even through three layers of clothes, digging deep and deeper like he's overlaying something, eradicating something (staking his claim). Can feel Sam's chest moving against his own, pressed together as they are, deep steady rhythm where his own is shaky and uncertain. 

Sam's perfectly nestled inside Dean's opened legs, like he's got every right to be there, like there's no place he'd rather be.

Distantly, he thinks he should probably push Sam away, or laugh it off, or, hell, _get angry._ Not stay right where he is and let his little brother suck any coherent thought right through his mouth, coating Dean's dirty insides with his bittersweet in-your-dreams taste, stuck on his lips and his heart no matter how much whiskey he's gonna down. 

Sam's no longer kissing him, but he's got one hand cupping Dean's cheek so tenderly it makes Dean _ache_ , pointer and middle and ring finger barely touching Dean's ear, pinky under his chin, thumb running over his spit-slick lips. 

Rubbing Sam in, never-to-forget, like Dean could ever. 

"You're not the only who's allowed to take on a burden," Sam says, _whispers_ , face so close Dean doesn't just hear the words, he can _taste_ 'em, feels them curl around his teeth with a familar echo of righteous fury and desperation that makes his stomach sink and sink 'cause Sammy's not—he's not _supposed_ to feel like that, not 'bout Dean, stupid fucking useless-worthless forever failing Dean. Not like he's the most important thing in Sam's life and _Dean's_ the idiot for not realizing that.

(Recent events scratching at memory-strings, and isn't his utter disbelief of Sam's apparent-supposed how-could-it-ever-be-true love for Dean what got them into this mess in the first place?) 

Sam's still staring at him, like he's looking for something, and Dean'd give it to him, god, would do it in a heartbeat, but he's got no _clue_ and before he can even try grasping at the edges of this whole off-the-tracks situation, Sam sharply nods, just once, before he backs off, turns away, eyes no longer meeting Dean's. 

Dean sacks into himself, now fully seated on the edge of the trunk, is vainly trying to catch his breath that he lost somewhere around spring 1997.

Hears Sam opening the car door on Melissa's side, hears him utter reassuring words, soothe the scared woman's fears while Dean's an unnecessary mess overflowing with don't-even-think-about-it desires. 

Business as usual.

(Turns out Sammy too can kill with just a single kiss.)


End file.
